


The Price Of Blood

by dandelionpower, mosslover



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Mitchell, snark and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 21:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14505681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionpower/pseuds/dandelionpower, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosslover/pseuds/mosslover
Summary: Anders and Mitchell are on their first trip outside of New Zealand together. Mitchell has big plans for his boyfriend, but right from the start things don’t turn out as he’d hoped. And Anders renting the most expensive car turns out to be the least of his worries.





	The Price Of Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaucyWench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaucyWench/gifts).



> Winter FRE prize for saucywench, who requested Britchell & hurt/comfort!  
> The story grew a little bit...  
> We hope you enjoy!

Waiting for Anders to come out of the dentist office, Mitchell once read in one of those lifestyle magazines that traveling is a true trial for a couple. It’s the first time Anders and he leave New Zealand together and he wants this trip to the United States to go as well as possible. But they are just leaving the car rental agency next to Boston Logan Airport and already, he’s confused about his boyfriend’s most basic decisions.

It’s not the first time Anders does something that puzzles him. It’s like Anders challenges all established conventions on purpose. Not that Mitchell considers himself as being particularly conventional, but with Anders at his side, it’s a non-stop roller-coaster.

“You haven’t taken the receipt?”

Giving how much Anders had spent on this car rental, it’s a legit question for Mitchell to ask.

“Receipts are for losers,” Anders states. “It’s an unwritten law of the universe.” He throws the keys in the air and catches them back with a self-satisfied grin.

In the parking garage, their Porsche Carrera cabriolet is waiting for them.

“Jeezus,” Mitchell curses under his breath. “Did you really have to pick the most expensive car?”

“Of course I had to,” Anders protests. He trails a finger on the car’s silver paint. “I’m here to meet potential clients for the JPR Boston branch. They have to know they’re dealing with one of their own.”

“A rich wanker?”

Anders unlocks the doors. “Don’t be such a spoilsport and get your arse into that sport car instead.”    

Mitchell heaves a sigh, but obeys nonetheless.

“Look at those leather seats,” Anders comments, squirming with delight like a chicken who just found the perfect nesting situation. “Now your arse can thank me. If I had listened to you, we would have ended up using public transportation.”

Rolling his eyes, Mitchell buckles his seat belt. “There is nothing bad about using public transportation, you know.”

“Germs, old people, service dogs, dirt, littering, kids, body odors, having to wait, no leather seats,” Anders enumerates, adjusting the rear view mirrors. “Should I go on?”

“Fine. Point taken,” Mitchell surrenders. “Now what’s the name of the street where we’re supposed to stay again? Do you have a map of the city?”

Anders snickers. “A map? We’re not in 1970, grand-dad.” He pulls his phone out of his trousers pocket and drops it on Mitchell’s lap. “I’ve already put the address in the app. All you have to do is follow the little blue dot.” He gives his boyfriend a wink.  

Mitchell takes the phone with a slight pout. “I know how your phone works, thank you very much.”

“Where were you in 1970, as a matter of fact?” Anders is always curious about the past of the man who’s sharing his bed, and he rarely shies away from asking direct questions. Mitchell doesn’t mind answering them most of the time and takes Anders’ interest as a compliment of sorts.

“I was here, in fact, in Boston.”

“No way! You’re kidding me?”  

“I’m not. I went to the Woodstock Festival, and then I stuck around for a couple more months.”

It’s too uncanny for Anders to really believe it just yet. “You’re taking the piss!”

“I swear I’m not,” Mitchell assures him.  

“You were in Woodstock! _The_ Woodstock?”

“I was. As were a lot of other people. That was _the_ place to be in the summer or 1969! Sadly, as you can expect, I’ve no photo to prove it.”  

“Woodstock,” Anders whispers, amazed. “...with all those topless hippy chicks… You’re full of surprises, John Mitchell!”

“I can be, yeah,” Mitchell replies with a soft, secretive smile dancing on his lips.

He has more secrets, however: things he’s not planning on telling Anders, at least not just yet. The main surprise is made of gold and hidden in an inner pocket of his leather coat, in a small, square, velvety box.

It’s been a couple months that the idea of proposing to Anders is leaping around in his mind, but when the project of a trip to Boston came up, it seemed to him like the perfect opportunity. All he has to do now is to find the perfect spot and the perfect moment to pop the question to his boyfriend of the last three years.   

There are a number of ways Anders can respond to that question, and the last thing Mitchell wants is to scare him away. The idea of committing to a vampire has to be frightening already in itself.

There is also a good probability Anders will laugh or not take him seriously. Mitchell has to be solemn about it, to show Anders his proposition is genuine, but, at the same time, he has to find a way not to make it sound too much like a dreadful life-sentence.

Mitchell has lived more than a century and what he feels for Anders, he has never felt it for anyone else. That’s how he knows they have something special and he has to hold on to it.

A hand rests on his thigh and squeezes gently. “You okay?”

Mitchell nods with a reassuring smile.  “Yes. I’m just a little tired.”

“It was a long flight,” Anders agrees. “Though you slept like an Irish log through most of it and left me to my own devices.”

“That’s always dangerous,” Mitchell grins. “That’s why I took the aisle seat, so you can look out the window and can’t escape.”

“Ah, so that’s been your plan all along,” Anders gives him a high-browed look. “Trapping me between the boring view of clouds and the long lean body I couldn’t even touch without risking getting us on the no-fly list?”

“Exactly.” Mitchell opens the GPS app and taps the list of addresses on the screen. The top one is for a place called Jamaica Plain, which sounds familiar - Anders must have mentioned it.

“Chestnut avenue?” he angles the phone towards Anders, pausing when he turns and finds Anders already looking at him. “What?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Anders confirms, narrowing his eyes at Mitchell as his smile skews towards lascivious. “You can make it up to me when we get there, for all those hours on the flight when I had to keep my hands to myself. We’ve got the whole house to ourselves, so we can make as much noise as we want.”

Mitchell snickers, fiddling with the ap to start the navigation. “That’s so considerate of you, wanting to spare the neighbors from your snoring.”

“I don’t snore!” Anders’ feathers puff up immediately. “But you’ll be grateful no one is able to hear the sounds that will be coming out of your mouth when I put that long lean body of yours to a good use…” He shifts the gear into reverse, humming with nearly as much suppressed excitement as the sports car’s engine. “Now let’s get going before I have my way with you right here. You know what prudes these yankees can be…”

“Anyone’s a prude compared to you,” Mitchell adds dryly, but as Anders pulls out of their parking space and starts weaving his way through the underground labyrinth of arrows and lanes, he has to admit that Anders’ plan for later sounds rather appetizing. They just have to get one last formality out of the way, and then they can test out the bed in whatever snazzy accomodations Anders had no doubt procured.

The racecar-like, five-dial dashboard of the Porsche tells Mitchell that it’s already 8:33 pm as they glide out of the airport. The sky is ink-dark and the city streets alight, but with rush hour well over, the traffic isn’t heavy and Anders navigates the unfamiliar roads of Boston with ease and confidence. Mitchell has to admit his boyfriend does look good behind the wheel of the sports car. He’s like a kid on an amusement park ride, every turn and acceleration making his expression more gleeful than it was a second before.

With Anders happily immersed in his driving task, Mitchell makes sure to supplement the GPS’s robotic instructions with his own, Irish-accented ones as they negotiate multiple lanes on the interstate. He’s keeping an eye out for familiar names, and once they cross the bay on the I-90 bridge, there it is: a sign pointing out several exits, including one for the North End. Boston’s Little Italy.

Mitchell turns to his boyfriend. “Hey, babe, can you take the third exit in about a mile? We gotta make that little stop I told you about.”

Anders glances in the rear view mirror, then at Mitchell. “What stop?”

“I told you before we left Auckland,” Mitchell reminds him, though in retrospect, Anders had been rather preoccupied with the size of the bed and the shape of the bathtub in the air bnb house he’d been booking at the time. “I told you we’ve gotta let the local vampires know we’re in town. Or that I’m in town, more specifically.”

“Oh, yeah, maybe you said that.” Anders replies, unconcerned. “Does it have to be now? I’d really like to get to the place and make sure that the bed can handle us.” He adds a smirk, though it isn’t necessary in order for his meaning to come across.

Mitchell shifts in his leather seat, shrugging. “It’s just a formality. A courtesy call, to show I respect their territory and do not plan on hunting here.”

“Well, and since you don’t, then what’s another hour and a half?” Anders blows right past exit 2B and Mitchell watches it disappear in the side mirror, a tiny tone of disquiet echoing vaguely inside.

But then, Anders is probably right. They can drop off their luggage, at the very least, and it’s also probably a good idea to let Anders make good on all his lascivious promises if Mitchell wants dinner and drinks later to not follow the same script. Though that makes it sound like a chore, having sex with Anders, and that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

A pleasant tingle of anticipation spreads through Mitchell’s midsection and he glances down at the screen of Anders’ phone, cradled in his palm. Fifteen minutes to destination.

“Okay, we can wait,” he says, burrowing deeper into the luxurious seat. As long as he announces himself to the local vampires on the first day, he should be fine. After all, he’s been acquainted with the Boston King during his last visit here. So what harm could a little delay possibly do?

The old Victorian era house Anders has booked for them sits on the corner of Chestnut street, on a slope that rises up from the street and leads to a wooden staircase and a wrap-around porch. Anders pulls into an alley and finds a parking spot waiting for them behind the house; a motion-triggered flood light springs to life as it registers their arrival.

“Home sweet home,” Anders proclaims, shutting off the engine. “The key’s in some kind of a box by the back door, can you swoop in with your night vision and get it? The code’s somewhere in my messages.”

Mitchell snorts, then exits the car, glancing up at the house. It’s tall and has many large, dark windows, and from the back where they are standing, it looks a bit unwelcoming. Mitchell walks over to the trunk and retrieves their bags and then climbs the steps towards the rear entrance. The lockbox Anders had mentioned is affixed to the door frame and after some tugging and mild cursing, they free the key and let themselves in.

Before the hallway light blinks on automatically, Mitchell registers the scent of cedar and fresh linen in the house. Paneling and wooden crown molding run along the hallway interior and it reminds Mitchell of times long gone by and forgotten. A pang of nostalgia reverberates through him, but it’s squished when Anders grins at him as he deposits his suitcase by the door and leads the way to the front of the house, flipping all the light switches within reach along the way as if announcing their arrival with a tsunami of light.

“Well, I think we can safely say that I have impeccable taste,” Anders calls from around the corner, impressed with himself from the tone of his voice. “By the way, come check out this settee. I am so going to fuck you on it, in view of half of the neighborhood.”

The promise is so Anders that despite its lewdness, it makes Mitchell grin with affection. He follows the voice of his lover and thinks of the ring he’s carrying in his jacket, hidden securely and waiting for the right moment. It’s not now; there are other urgent things that need attended to right now.

  


***

 

On his way back from the shower, Mitchell stops in the door frame leading to the living room and takes his time to admire the view as he dries his hair with a towel. Right after sex, desire fades, but love doesn’t. “You look like a painting on that settee.”

Anders is a languid vision of perfection: all golden skin and smiling blue eyes. “Thank you, Leonardo.”

“Da Vinci?”

“Nah, Leonardo DiCaprio, you nerd.”

The towel around Mitchell’s hips ends up on a chair along with the one for his hair. He leans over the settee to kiss his boyfriend. Anders’ hand sneaks to the back of his neck.

Despite the shower they both took, to Mitchell’s heightened senses, Anders still has the scent of their coupling stamped to his skin.

The kiss is interrupted by a low grumble.

Mitchell pulls back with a little laugh. “Was that your stomach?”

“What can I say? All that exercise made me hungry.”

“The vampire lair is in Little Italy. I can grab some take-out on my way back,” Mitchell offers, already collecting his clothes scattered around the room.  

Anders imitates him, reaching for his shirt. “Why don’t I accompany you instead, and we find some place to eat together?”

Mitchell utters a skeptical hum, buttoning his jeans.

Pulling his arms through the sleeve of his shirt, Anders flashes him a glance. “What was that? You’re afraid I’ll end up being the vampires’ dinner? You said you knew the king.”  

“I do. He’s a cool guy, for a vampire, grant you…” Mitchell trails off.

“Come on!” Anders stands from the settee and catches Mitchell by the waist, pulling the taller man against him. “What could happen when I have Big Bad John with me? I want to eat good food in a real italian restaurant, not some semi-hot noodles out of a box.”

Anders’ coaxing smile is solar. Mitchell melts like spring snow. It does unspeakable things to him: always did.  

One’s never too careful around vampires, but Mitchell got to know Virgil, the king of Boston, during his last stay in the city. Virgil’s not the impulsive or overly-violent kind, as far as vampires standards go. Normally, Mitchell wouldn’t be keen on bringing his lover to an errand that involves meeting strange vampires, but another incentive makes him waver.

He knows a nice square on the outskirt of Little Italy, between Boston Library and Trinity Church. Mitchell is not overly fond of churches in general, but the neighborhood has a hip, urban-chic vibe, despite some of its buildings being quite old. This mix of old-fashioned and classy modern: maybe it’s the perfect place to ask Anders to be his husband. It is, in a way, a metaphor of their couple. And he suspects if Anders had to describe his favorite scenario for a proposal, it would take place in the heart of the city, after a decadent meal at an expensive restaurant.

Mitchell steals a kiss from that plump mouth Anders displays without shame. “Fine,” he murmurs against his lips, “you win. Let’s go find you the best five-servings dinner Boston has to offer.”

Anders laughs and it has the side-effect of making him even more kissable. One kiss becomes two and three, four, five more. Twenty minutes later, they still have to cross the door.

They’re making out in the hallway, and the knowledge of what’s hidden in a pocket of his leather jacket makes Mitchell’s otherwise dead heart quiver with anticipation.

“Kissing you: I thought it would get old at some point,” Anders confides as they finally reach the car outside, “but somehow, I never get tired of it.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Mitchell assures him.

“Here,” Anders says, throwing the car keys to his boyfriend. “You can drive that puppy tonight.” He pats the hood of the Porsche for emphasis. In Anders Johnson peculiar dialect, it’s the closest thing to a love confession.

 

***

 

“Soundproof Solution - Window Treatments and Soundproof Windows,” Anders reads out loud from the sign on the one-story, gray and unassuming building.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Mitchell confirms, pulling up along the sidewalk. “That’s their cover business.” People stumbling out of the oyster bars on Salem street ogle the black Porsche with a certain envy. “This is the worse vehicle to keep a low profile,” Mitchell thinks, swallowing down.  

Anders is still staring at the rather unimpressive concrete facade. “It makes sense... soundproof windows can be handy when you’re killing people,” he remarks, “but you have to admit we’re far from Dracula’s castle here.”

Mitchell sniggers and turns off the ignition. “I’m sorry vampires are so disappointing nowadays.”

“Not all vampires…” Anders holds his boyfriend’s gaze meaningfully.

“You should put that on a mug,” Mitchell replies, his attention back on the vampires’ lair. There is no light visible from outside the building, but that doesn’t mean nobody’s home. He fidgets with the keys, suddenly reluctant to even step out of the car.  “I think you better wait here,” he suggests. “I won’t be long.”

But Anders is already opening the door, setting a foot on the uneven cobblestones of the old street. “I know what you’re like when you go down memory lane. You’ll start to reminisce with your old friends about the people you’ve sucked dry together around here and I’ll have to go hunting for pasta alone.”

For several reasons, Anders’ words don’t sit that well with Mitchell. He doesn’t quite relish the idea of Anders having dinner on his own on what is their first major trip together. But all he says is: “I wouldn’t quite call Virgil a friend,” They both know the grumbling response is him giving in.

And maybe it is better to keep Anders close, Mitchell tells himself. He steps out of the car, the heel of his boot scraping against the smooth stone of the street. He clicks the sports car’s lock; the car beeps twice and falls silent. Mitchell walks around the car to where Anders is waiting. At least his impatient boyfriend had not swaggered up the front steps and banged on the door yet, demanding they let him and ‘Big Bad John’ inside.

“Alright, let’s get this out of the way so we can find some carbs for you,” Mitchell gives a quick smile and strides to the door, knocking on it. It’s not terribly suspicious, he hopes, considering that it’s dark now and opening hours for most shops are long over for the day.

For a few seconds, there is no response; only when Mitchell is about to raise his fist again to rap his knuckles against the glass is there a sound of approaching steps on the other side.

Mitchell lets his arm drop again to his hip and waits, aware of Anders’ near-silent breathing next to him. A few moments and then they’ll be out the door again, heading to dinner, he tells himself. He can already see them in a cozy corner of one of the numerous italian restaurants they’d seen along the drive - Mamma Maria or Limoncello - sipping from generous glasses of wine and filling themselves up with parmesan-crusted fish, a candle on the table between them slowly dripping wax and romance.

The door of the shop wrenches open and an oval face with dark, deep-set eyes glowers at them from inside the dim interior. “We’re closed, what do you want?” the man asks, his voice softly accented and his lip curled up in a sneer around the toothpick he is chewing on.

Mitchell’s gaze does not waver. “I’m here to see Virgil.”

The man scoffs and his eyes are measuring Mitchell coldly, though the mention of the king’s name makes realization flicker through his features. “Virgil, huh?” the man says, almost with interest. “Well, come in, then.” The man opens the door wider to let them pass, measuring both Mitchell, and then Anders, with an almost amused glance.

Mitchell doesn’t recall this particular vampire from before - but it has been decades and there are bound to be new recruits around. He can’t say, though, that he particularly likes this one’s expression. He conceals the tiny sliver of tension that winds itself around his midsection and instead, to reassure Anders but also himself, he puts a hand to the small of Anders’ back. He can’t really feel Anders’ warmth through the jacket and he wants to slide his hand underneath, to where Anders’ skin is closer, but he doesn’t want to make overly affectionate gestures in the current settings either.

The interior of the store is dim. Mitchell can make out rectangle shapes leaning against the walls that are likely samples of windows. There’s a counter running the length of the room at the back, with a gap to pass through. Behind it, a narrow stripe of light indicates a door and Mitchell recalls that the hallway leads to a larger storage area in the back.

The vampire who’d let them in waits for the entrance to close shut with a metallic click, and then turns to Mitchell again. This time, the sneer on his face is prominent, and in the filtered light of streetlamps from outside he glances to Anders fleetingly before his gaze returns to Mitchell.

“Virgil’s dead,” he says in a cold voice that rings with a perverse joy at bearing shocking news. “But I think the new king will appreciate that you are following protocol.”

Looking back, Mitchell tells himself he should have expected the situation to have changed in the decades during which he hadn’t been in the city. But he isn’t too fussed about the new situation. His business with the Boston King is quick and simple and unless the new king is completely paranoid about newcomers, it should resemble almost a drive-by errand. With that in mind, Mitchell asks, as nonchalantly as possible: “What happened to Virgil?”

“Some of us considered his style a bit outdated,” the vampire replies with a chuckle. “It was time for an upgrade.” He turns, walking towards the back of the store without another look at them. And yet it is clear they are to follow.

Mitchell glances sideways, more sensing than actually discerning Anders’ questioning look in the low light. He gives a tiny nod of reassurance and leads the way after the vampire, Anders tight on his heels. He can now hear voices coming from behind the partly open door in the back: it sounds like a small group of people is convening there.

Anders stops mere inches behind Mitchell when they reach the lit door. “Any idea who Boston King 2.0 might be?” he whispers, leaning into Mitchell’s shoulder.

Mitchell gives a quick shake of his head. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “We’ll see.”

Mitchell narrows his eyes at the door. In the next moment, it reveals a spacious storage room lined with cardboard boxes, windows frames, and large metal work desks as it opens. It smells dusty, but beneath it, Mitchell detects the scent of bleach and other chemicals. While it isn’t exactly surprising, he doesn’t like it: it reminds him of the times when ‘no-blood diet’ had not been a word in his vocabulary.  

A group of vampires stands assembled around one of the work tables in the back. None of them seem familiar, but they are definitely younger than Virgil’s crowd.

This might have been a complete takeover.

As they step further into the room, the vampires pause their low chatter, heads turning towards the incoming group.

“We’ve got guests, gentlemen. From out of town, it would appear.” The vampire leading them in makes a point of looking back to leer at Anders. “Or should I say one guest and a-”

The end of his statement goes unheard. The tallest of the assembled vampires strides forward, his gaze assessing the newcomers. “Ah, who do we have here?” He sounds welcoming, and yet the brown eyes under a perfectly executed hairstyle remain cold and calculating.

“My name is John Mitchell,” Mitchell states, straightening up and squaring his shoulders, stopping five feet shy of the other man and infusing his words with confidence.

“Pleased to meet you, John. I’m Ebenezer Friend.” Despite his patronym, something about his manners, underneath the otherwise cool exterior, is rather unfriendly.    

An instinct born from deep in his guts urges Mitchell to step to the side just and place himself between the tall vampire and his lover. He doesn’t even have to ask: just observing the way the others in the room act around him lets him know that Ebenezer is the boss. “I won’t be long. I’m just here, out of respect, to tell you that I’ll be on your territory for the next two weeks, but I’m not planning on hunting here.”

Ebenezer probably heard Mitchell, but his eyes are glued on Anders who follows the discussion, hands on hips, standing behind his boyfriend.  

“I don’t really care what you do here,” Ebenezer answers Mitchell, “as long as you clean after yourself and pay the welcome tax, but I see that you’ve come prepared, so it’s all good.”

“The welcome tax?” Those words sound more dreadful than they should have.

With the sigh of someone used to bribing his way out of narrow situations, Anders pulls his wallet from inside of his suit jacket. “How much do you want?”

Ebenezer shakes his head. “I don’t care about money. That’s not how things work here…”

A loud, metallic sound makes Mitchell snap his head around. The toothpick-chewing vampire who led them in earlier has closed and locked the door, blocking the only exit. Mitchell walked into a trap and brought Anders with him.

“Hold on!” An ice-like vice crushes Mitchell’s chest when he reads the true intention behind Ebenezer’s stare. “Anders is my partner! Nobody here is going to touch a single hair of his head!” He steps back to put distance between him and the vampire king, shielding Anders in the process.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ebenezer replies, insensible to Mitchell’s protests. “He’s human… and if a foreign vampire wants to be on our turf, he has to pay his due and bring me a prey.”

Mitchell’s hands balls into fists - adrenaline pumping its way through his veins. “Virgil would have never asked for something like that!” He is determined not to let any of the vampires approach Anders.  

A nasty smile stretches Ebenezer’s mouth, splitting his face in two like a clean cut. “Virgil’s head is in my freezer. There is a new sheriff in town and I’m afraid it’s : my city, my rules.” He extends a hand toward Anders, inviting him to step closer. “Come here, handsome. Let’s see if you taste as scrumptious as you look. And if you behave, maybe I won’t kill you.”  

His boyfriend’s fingers dig into the flesh at the back of Mitchell’s arm as he holds on to him. “Don’t touch me, arsehole,” Anders spits, an edge of panic rising in his voice.  

Like a cornered animal trying to defend its mate, Mitchell quickly assesses his options… and he finds out they are nonexistent. He can’t run and drag Anders along. The door is locked and the windows too high. He has no fighting chance either. Alone against five vampires : they would demolish him and drink Anders dry anyway.

If only he had insisted on Anders staying in the car… It’s too late now. But he can’t let Ebenezer drink from Anders. He has promised Anders he would never let a vampire harm him… never. And now he has to watch some stranger’s fangs sink into his love’s smooth, golden skin.

“You have no right to do that,” Mitchell growls, knowing how inadequate that sounds. The king makes the rules - that’s how it works amongst vampires. The smell of Anders’ fear invades Mitchell’s nostrils and the knowledge that his lover is in distress, is enough to make him lose his mind. He vamps out - ink-black eyes and muscles tense like a bow string. “You’re not going to have him,” he threatens Ebenezer. “You’re going to have to kill me first.”

“That can be arranged,” Ebenezer, says, unfazed. He snaps his fingers and two of the other vampires rush to grab Mitchell.

Mitchell punches the first that reaches him. The vampire falls back with a grunt of pain, but a third one comes to help immobilize Mitchell. Soon, Mitchell is overpowered. He hisses, bearing fangs and struggling, but to no avail. He can’t move, he can’t fight, he can’t protect Anders.

Ebenezer shakes his forefinger, tutting at him as one would do with a misbehaving child. “Hush now, John Mitchell. Don’t make it difficult.” He turns lustful eyes toward Anders once again addressing him. “You must be a very special man for Big Bad John to be ready to die so he remains the only one allowed to have you.”

If fear did not prevent Anders from speaking, he would probably say that Mitchell has never tasted his blood.

“If you’re that special to him,” the king goes on, “that must mean he’s pretty special to you as well.” He tilts his head to the side and waits for an answer, but Anders is as pale as death and looks like he has swallowed his tongue. “You wouldn’t want me to order my men to stick a stake through his chest, then, would you, Anders?”

Anders shakes his head, and manages to breathe through his teeth: “I’ll do what you want, just… don’t hurt him.”

Mitchell notices his hands are shaking. He has never seen Anders like this before. “No, Anders! Don’t do this!” He tries to shove aside one of the vampires who holds him captive, but the man just digs his nails into Mitchell’s shoulder to the point of bruising and forces him down to his knees.

“That’s a good boy,” Ebenezer approves. “That’s it, come closer,” he encourages Anders.

Mitchell doesn’t even feel the cement floor biting at his knees through his jeans. The rage and helplessness are too overwhelming. He can’t bear the thought of having to watch a monster much similar to himself bury his fangs into a body he loves and promised to ever only treat with respect and affection. There is just one certitude in Mitchell’s mind: if Ebenezer kills Anders, the king is going to be the next to die.

“It’ll be alright, Mitchell,” Anders whispers. He walks past him, his eyes fixed on the king.

Ebenezer wears a smile of wicked pleasure as he makes a ‘come hither’ gesture at the blond, his lip curling up. “It’s so nice when your midnight snack is reasonable like that. I appreciate that about my food.”

“You bastard!” Mitchell spits the words out, struggling harder than ever against the three vampires who hold him down. He has to stop this from happening; they can’t hurt Anders, play with him like a cat with a mouse before killing it for barely more than sport. He throws all of his weight against the iron hold imprisoning him, but the muscles that restrain him do not budge.

For a second, a desperate thought blares red and urgent through his mind. Could he offer someone else in exchange for Anders? He could find a stranger out there in the dark streets of Little Italy, alone and defenseless, and bring them here… But just as he can’t stand the idea of Anders being forcibly fed from by Boston’s vicious leader, he knows he can’t do this to an innocent person either. Not anymore - he is not Big Bad John any longer…

Breathing through his nose, Mitchell jerks futilely against the bodies of his captors and with every step Anders takes towards Ebenezer, his heart sinks deeper and deeper through the cold hard cement he’s kneeling on.

“Please don’t do this,” Mitchell grits out. “Please don’t hurt him...”

“I’ll be fine, Mitch,” Anders assures him again without turning around. He sounds calm, but Mitchell can see how much it’s costing Anders to keep his composure now. His hands are balled into fists to conceal that they are shaking and his voice is not as smooth and confident as Mitchell knows it can be. The reassurance falls flat; they both know they don’t hold the power right now.

But Anders isn’t ready to serve himself on a silver platter either. “If you hurt or kill me, my family will come after you,” he warns Ebenezer. “They know where I am. They have ways of finding me.”

“You think that scares me?” the king smiles, unconcerned about Anders’ feeble threat. “Even if they do come here, I will be delighted to tell them just how delicious it was to sample your blood before I have a taste of theirs as well.” He waits, like a spider who knows that the fly caught securely in its net has no more options.

“Anders, get away from him!” Helplessness cuts Mitchell raw inside, making him feel as if he might go insane. “Anders-!!”

But it’s too late. Anders is mere steps from Ebenezer when the vampire king suddenly lurches forward with inhuman speed and seizes Anders. Mitchell’s blood freezes, tendons standing out in his neck at a sight straight out of his worst nightmares. Ebenezer spins Anders around, imprisoning his wrists with the steel grasp of one hand and positions him so that Anders’ back is against his chest, his neck exposed. The glow from the industrial lights above bathes Anders’ golden skin, and there’s a look of pure terror in the blond’s blue eyes as they meet Mitchell’s with a desperate plea.

A plea that Mitchell can’t answer, though he’d die all over again to be able to.

With an expression of almost lazy triumph, Ebenezer vamps out and his fangs break the satin-looking, thin skin on the side of Anders’ neck.

Mitchell’s scream of rage drowns out Anders’ strangled shout of pain; the blond jerks as if to get away but Ebenezer’s other arm holds him in place like a vice. Mitchell wrestles with his capturers, drowning in despair, but he can’t get any leverage; not even one arm free.

And then the first drops of blood fall onto the lapel of Anders’ pristine wool suit jacket, seeping into the fabric. Anders had been smug about that jacket making it through the flight without wrinkles, and now…

More drops trickle into Anders’ dark blue shirt, and with each new one that appears, Mitchell’s shouts grow louder and hoarser.

The king drinks without restraint. Anders gradually stops jerking in his hold, as if with the blood that leaves his body, his willpower to resist drains from him as well. His eyes lose their focus on Mitchell and slide shut.

“No - Anders!!! Stop, you bastard, you’ve taken enough! Let him go!!!” Mitchell bellows. Feverishly, he tries to calculate in his mind - the location of the bite, how long the king has been drinking, how close Anders is to losing too much; how long before the bleeding is irreversible. But he can’t concentrate on any such calculations. “Please, let him go, don’t kill him…”

There had been times in his life when he’d not allow anyone to see him like this, but now he doesn’t care anymore. His voice grows weaker with every gulp of Anders’ blood the king swallows. He almost hangs his head, hope on the brink of deserting him.

And then, abruptly, the king stops feasting. He tears his crimson-colored, glistening mouth from Anders’ neck, looking, for a moment, uncertain. Mitchell’s eyes widen in surprise and hope surges back into every molecule of his body, wild and feeling like a thousand shots of adrenaline at once.

Ebenezer makes a face of disgust and his fangs detract in haste. “What is this - what is going on?” he growls in confusion. “Who the fuck are you? This blood tastes _wrong_ -”

He releases Anders and the blond man wavers, eyes fluttering open at the unexpected feeling of freedom. His his hands fly to the ravaged spot on his neck and one comes away wet and dripping; Anders looks at it and if he’d already looked alarmingly pale, now he takes on a green tinge as well.

“Take him!” Ebenezer hisses, his voice colored with anger. He shoves Anders toward Mitchell and Anders staggers, barely able to stay conscious let alone keep his feet under him. “Take your fucked-up mate and get out of here!” His goons hasten to comply with their boss’ order; they let go of Mitchell just in time for him to lunge forward and catch Anders before he can crash to the floor.

He cradles his lover in his arms, forgetting where they are and the threatening monsters looming over them in order to concentrate on Anders. The blond man is ashen, eyes glazy and unfocused. Mitchell places his hand to the side of his neck, putting pressure on the bite wound, in hope to stop the bleeding. Ebenezer’s fangs have made more damage than he first thought. “Anders! Anders! Stay with me,” Mitchell implores him. He can’t let him drift into unconsciousness. They have to get out of here and quick.

“I’m alright, I can walk,” Anders protests in a barely audible grunt.

“Fine,” Mitchell replies, even though he can see Anders is all but ‘alright’. It’s not like he has any other choice. He places Anders’ hand over the wound, to replace his blood-soiled fingers.”Keep putting pressure on it,” he instructs. Mitchell pulls him up on his feet, but without any muscle tonus, Anders weights more than he looks.

He slings his boyfriend’s arm around his neck and supporting his limp form with his own arm around Anders’ waist, Mitchell carries him toward the door. The last thing he hears before leaving the room is Ebenezer’s voice warning him: “You have 24 hours to leave my city, or else I’ll find you and this time, I’ll kill you both.”

Just before stepping out of the building, Mitchell puts his leather jacket on Anders’ shoulders so the collar would somewhat hide the wound and the blood on Anders’ suit.

They cross the street and Mitchell unlocks the Porsche’s passenger door. He’s just opened it to help Anders inside when a couple steps outside from a nearby restaurant.

The woman eyes Anders with concern. “Is your friend okay?,” she asks Mitchell.  

“He’s fine -- he’s just very drunk,” he reassures her with a forced smile, hiding the tremor of concern in his voice. In the darkness, he hopes he can sell it.

She nods and then, her partner says something that catches her attention, giving Mitchell enough time to slip into the car.

Anders’ head is lolling back against the leather backrest but at least he’s conscious. 

“You must keep your hand there,” Mitchell chides, though he knows it’s not Anders’ fault if he doesn’t have any strength.

Mitchell turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the tight parking space. It’s all his fault. He should have insisted in leaving his boyfriend at the house, or, at least, be firmer in his decision to go to the vampire lair alone.

Since the day he had met Anders, he swore to himself he would always leave him out of any business involving vampires. He has even tried to keep Anders away from him at the very beginning, but when it became clear that he couldn’t live without his favorite PR guy, he had set himself some ground rules in order to spare Anders from the side effects of living with an undead bloodsucker. Tonight he wanted to please Anders, but it had made him break those rules. The night should have ended with a romp of newly-engaged sex, and instead, his boyfriend is bleeding on very expensive leather seats.

Mitchell burns three red lights in a row before the street merges onto the highway. Traffic regulations be damned!  His absolute first priority is getting to the house as fast as he can to take care of Anders. With a bite like that, taking him to hospital is not a good idea. The doctors would want to keep Anders overnight, probably to give him rabies shots and keep him under observation, but Mitchell and he have to leave Boston sooner than 24 hours if they want to avoid Ebenezer’s retaliation.

A sign indicates the next exit to Jamaica Plain and Mitchell changes line to take it. If only he could give Anders some comfort and reassure himself as well. His stomach is tied in a painful knot and sweat is dripping on his forehead.

“Stay with me, Anders.”

“It’s not like I can go anywhere,” is the weak answer coming from the passenger seat. If the snark is still alive, there is a chance Anders will make it as well.

“Hold on, we’re nearly there.”

The tires screech when Mitchell takes a rather sharp turn on Chestnut Avenue. Two minutes later, the house is in sight. The Porsche climbs the steep driveway with ease. Mitchell hits the brakes hard in his hurry to get his boyfriend into the house, making gravel fly around the car as he does. The vampire unbuckles Anders’ seat belt, despite the blond man’s protesting he can do it himself. Then, Mitchell leaps out his door to go and help Anders.

Anders bats his hand away when Mitchell tries to put his arm around him to help him walk toward the house.“I told you; I’m fine!” Some blood is still leaking from his neck, soaking the collar of his grey shirt.

Eyebrows furrowed, Mitchell steps aside to give his boyfriend some space, but as soon as he does, Anders staggers and falls to his knees in the gravel.

“You’re _not_ fine, for fuck sake, you’ve lost a lot of blood and you can’t even stand on your own,” Mitchell fumes, more worried than angry. “Don’t be an idiot and let me help you!”

This time, Anders doesn’t protest when Mitchell brings him to the house. He leans heavily against the wall as Mitchell fumbles with the keys to unlock the back door.

They get past the threshold, but Anders grabs the front of Mitchell’s shirt in an attempt to prevent what he feels coming. His eyes roll up into their sockets, but Mitchell has good reflexes and once again, he catches him just in time before he can hit his head.

His throat tight with anguish and guilt, Mitchell picks his passed-out lover up and carries him, bride-style, to the living room where he settles Anders on the couch, his legs propped up on the armrest. “Baby...I’m so sorry,” he says, stroking Anders’ pale forehead.

Emerging from unconsciousness, eyes fluttering open, Anders groans. “I feel awful, like I’ve been run over by a truck. Is that why you never wanted to bite me?”

Relieved to see him pulling through, Mitchell places a kiss to Anders’ brow. “Exactly, and now it’s even clearer in my mind: I don’t want to see you like this ever again.” He grabs the towel he discarded earlier, after his shower, and uses it to stop the bleeding once and for all. “Keep this in place. I’m going to the kitchen to see if there are any soft drinks or juice in the fridge -- you need sugar right now.”

“Thanks, doc.”

Anders calling him doc makes Mitchell smile the slightest bit, though he doesn’t feel like a doctor at all. He feels like the perpetrator who should be facing punishment instead of gratitude.

He stands up and hurries across the parquets and antique area rugs to the kitchen. Hopefully no blood had gotten on any of the furnishing, he thinks; the cleaning fee would be exorbitant at a place this snazzy. Too bad they are going to have to pack the few things they’ve so far taken out and get out of this town. It means Anders might not be able to establish his JPR extension here, but maybe it’s time to cut their losses: Mitchell won’t take any chances with Ebenezer’s threat to kill them.

Flicking the kitchen lights on, Mitchell gives his surroundings a stressed scowl. He throws open the fridge and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees a stash of soda cans, a jug of milk, and a bottle of apple juice. He clatters around for a glass, cursing when he nearly pinches his finger in a cabinet door in his rush to get back to Anders. He pours a generous measure of juice into the first cup he finds, some of the liquid splashing beyond the glass and tiny droplets landing on a bunch of take-out flyers laid out on the counter in the shape of a fan.

Food! Mitchell has almost forgotten that Anders hadn’t eaten in forever and he will need carbs to get stronger. Mitchell grabs the first flyer - Antonio’s Italian Subs - and he is punching the restaurant’s number on the keys of his flipped-open phone before the thought’s even finished forming in his mind.

The person that picks up the call seems annoyed to get such a late customer, but grudgingly accepts Mitchell’s rattle of “Number nine, seventeen, twenty-one, and forty two, please. And breadsticks, double order.” He can practically hear the raised eyebrows on the other end at his unceremonious manner, but he’s well past the point of pleasantries. “I’ve got cash - is cash good?” he adds when the male voice huffs: “Credit card number?”

Mitchell gives him the house address - miraculously, he remembers it from earlier - and then he strides back to the living room, the cutting worry for his lover taking a front row seat once more. With relief, he sees that Anders has followed his instructions and kept pressure on the wound. Still, the towel is streaked with red and Mitchell wishes italian restaurant delivered disinfectant. Who knows where Ebenezer’s mouth has been these days? If he makes Anders sick on top of everything else, it will be Ebenezer who will face death, not Mitchell and Anders, he swears to himself. Just the memory of the smug, cold eyes of Boston’s vampire king make Mitchell remember murder with fondness after a very long time.

He pushes the thought away. Anger and more risk won’t help Anders now.

“Here, drink this,” he more orders Anders than anything, and Anders gives him a look, framed by a tilted eyebrow, from beneath his mostly closed eyelids. His hand clutching the towel is shaking.

Mitchell’s heart clenches with concern. “Are you cold?”

Anders hisses as he strains his neck to sip on the juice. “Maybe. I just feel fucking weird…”

Mitchell kneels by the couch. “Of course you feel weird. That bastard took a lot. I thought for sure he was going to... “ He halts, something in his throat preventing him from finishing the sentence. “He stopped though, he said… he said you tasted wrong-?”

Anders takes another sip of the juice and then sags back against the cushioned armrest of the couch, looking slightly less ashen. “I called Bragi,” he confesses. “I had no idea if it would be any help, but it was the only thing I could think of.”

Mitchell stares at him, surprised, impressed. “You called - that was Bragi that made the blood taste different?” He takes the towel from Anders’ cold, unsteady hand and checks on the wound; a thin trickle of blood is still oozing from one puncture but the rest is starting to seal off. With a concealed sigh of relief, he presses a dry section of the soaked towel back with care. “God, Anders. That was a fucking smart thing to do. I, on the other hand, am a complete idiot for taking you there. Can you ever forgive me?”

He’s not sure he deserves it though. And he can probably forget about asking Anders to marry him for a good long while. Who’d want a husband that makes such a vast error in judgement, almost costing the life of the person he loves?

“Shit, I hate blood.” Anders inspects his stained hand with a grimace of disgust, then glances at Mitchell out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll forgive you if you get this crap off my skin,” he says, and then adds: “And stop looking like a kicked dog, Mitchell, for fuck’s sake. Do you think I don’t know that you’d never take me there if you knew this was a possibility? God…” He strains to sit up again but Mitchell’s arms are there in a flash, around his chest, both soothing and preventing him from getting up and risking the wound reopening.

“Shh, hey, no fast movements.” He thinks quickly, pushing the guilt as far back as it would go in his brain. “Okay, I’m taking you upstairs to the bathtub. It’ll warm you up and I’ll clean you up at the same time.” When Anders opens his mouth to speak, Mitchell tuts him quiet. “Don’t even think about walking there on your own, Anders Johnson!”

“Fine,” Anders grumbles. “Have it your way.” But beneath the slight complaint in his voice there lurks gratitude as well, and that makes Mitchell’s heart clench hard again. Anders must really be feeling like shit if he lets even that much seep in.

He picks up Anders, leaving the bloodied towel behind and heading for the carved wooden staircase. Luckily the lights there are on a sensor so he doesn’t have to scramble to find them or risk tripping himself up. “I ordered food, it should be here in a few minutes,” he informs Anders after kicking open the door to the bathroom and setting Anders down against the counter. He slips the leather jacket and suit coat off Anders’ shoulders and starts to undo Anders’ tie and shirt buttons. “This will help, and then you can eat and -”

Anders is woozy still, but he gives Mitchell a coy smile, his eyes cracking open. “Hmm, I was hoping you’d be getting me naked one more time tonight,” he purrs, the flippant tone a bit exhausted.

“Not like this…” Mitchell gulps and stops, fisting his hands in the silky fabric of Anders’ shirt. The fact that Anders can still joke, that he’s not mad - it almost makes it worse, to be not only forgiven already but to never even need forgiveness in the first place. Tears stream into Mitchell’s eyes and he looks down at his lover from inches away.

“I never meant for you to get hurt like this, Anders. I was supposed to protect you from the vampire crap, not lead you straight into the lion’s den. This was supposed to be a nice trip for both of us and instead I’d gone and fucked it up -”

“Yeah, that part wasn’t exactly fun,” Anders admits, but then, of all things, he smiles. “But don’t worry, Drac, I’m still going to say yes.”

Mitchell rears back, eyes widening in shock. “You - what?”

Anders smirks. “I’m still going to marry you, doofus.” He points at Mitchell’s leather coat. “You can’t hide your secrets from me, John Mitchell. You were going to pop the question, and I’m going to say yes.”

Two and two put themselves together in Mitchell’s mind and it dawns on him. Anders must have felt the box after Mitchell had covered him with jacket, and of course he’d get curious and investigate -

“But how can you, now?” Mitchell exclaims. “After tonight, how could you still want-”

Anders shrugs. “That old-fashioned reason, I suppose...  you know which one. And besides, no one’s ever fussed over me the way you do, and it’s sort of grown on me.” He takes the flabbergasted Mitchell by his sweatshirt and leans in closer. “Now start the bath and you can whip out that ring. If I’m getting engaged, it better be in the nude.”

Mitchell laughs before surging forward and smashing his lips against Anders’, kissing him hard. “You are unbelievable,” he whispers, grinning through tears. “It’s a deal. As long as you don’t want to get married in the nude as well...”

“Now that’s a thought!” Anders proclaims, and, to avoid Mitchell’s outrage, he pulls him down for one more kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Thoughts/feedback are always welcome <3


End file.
